


An Evening for Etiquette

by Burnadette_dpdl



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood, Blood Drinking, Christmas Dinner, Dinner, Family Dinners, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gen, M/M, Multi, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, its not explicitly stated but it could be Christmas Dinner!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21996112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl
Summary: "And in a real way, Louis was always the sum of his flaws, the most beguilingly human fiend I have ever known... such a compassionate and contemplative creature, always the gentleman, even teaching Claudia the proper use of table silver when she, bless her little black heart, had not the slightest need ever to touch a knife or a fork."- The Vampire LestatOn a rain-drenched December night in New Orleans, Louis finds himself teaching Claudia table silver. Lestat happens upon the scene, and an impromptu family dinner ensues.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 14
Kudos: 125





	An Evening for Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emileesaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emileesaurus/gifts), [hw_campbell_jr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hw_campbell_jr/gifts), [HidetheSilverware (alexa_dean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/gifts), [Rebness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/gifts).



> This was written for @emileesaurus as part of the @VCsecretgifts exchange 2019 on tumblr, that I run annually w/ @wicked-felina. This year, as I read each submission, I was hunting for a prompt that met one of my fave subjects for fanfic: fluff during the IWTV-era, when Claudia was young, the domesticity, memories, discoveries, the dash of bittersweetness and angst that accompanies that time period, as their vampiry nature casts dark comedy on otherwise normal family moments…
> 
> So obviously, I liked their whole prompt, but these parts of of it ignited an older fic idea I’d had, the circumstances and scene in which Louis taught Claudia table silver, so I had to pounce on it:
> 
> _Louis/Lestat! I’m a big romantic softie when it comes to these two, so I’d love anything where they’re (at least mostly) enjoying each other’s company. Bonus points for any of the usual holiday tropes: wintery tenderness, gift exchanges, snuggling for warmth, dramatic Catholic angst,… Of course, domestic bittersweetness during the Claudia years is always wonderful, too, if my gift-giver wants to be historical! ... no angst without at least a slightly happy ending? :’) I love drama (it’s VC, of course I do) but I’m also a soft touch in December._

The rains had come down in heavy sheets for the past few weeks - despite it being December - when the city was always lovingly garnished in holiday dress, shop windows glittering with all manner of extravagant baubles and wares, polished to their highest gleam. Rain drummed liked fingers against the tall windows, fracturing the lamplights’ yellow into shivering streaks across Claudia’s face. She huffed out a vocalized sigh, watching the people scurry like turtles seeking better shelter, her fingers blindly playing piano along the dusty leaves of a monstera. The black velvet of her dress zinged against the silk couch as she slumped down further. 

Lestat had taken her out early in the evening to hunt, it had become the schedule to appease her immediately, as she always awoke ravenous. Best not to stand in her way. She’d taken the opportunity to get so completely soaked, having attending to “every puddle from here to the Garden District!” Lestat had proclaimed with a wide smile. He had barely passed the threshold when he turned his expanding smile on me, and breathlessly asked, would I be a dear, and fetch her down a change of clothes, so that she wouldn’t drip on the stairs? After changing her with no wasted motion, and leaving the thoroughly wrung-out clothes in the bathtub, he had left us to our own devices.

In the few hours since then, Claudia and I had gone through all of her favorite storybooks, and although she was beginning to have a taste for the poetry I’d offered her in the past few weeks, nothing seemed to satiate the boredom weighing on her small frame, her little shoe swinging back and forth. She’d been with us for the better half of a year, and I was still acclimating to her presence, the concept of experiencing life anew with each discovery, but it seemed we’d gone through everything we had readily available. How could I entertain her without Lestat? The very air crackled with their chemistry, they seemed to have no need of any outside source to ignite it, even her greedy smile appeared inherited directly from him as he reflected it right back, his very slight dimples matching her own, more defined in her ruddy cheeks. 

The noises of clattering in the seldom-used dining room drew me to investigate. Claudia had both hands clutching a mass of our fine table silver over a pile of the same on the dining table, and her little fingers splayed widely as she released them. Satisfied with the quantity, she placed a finger on the flat of each handle and moved them around, one by one, almost into position for place settings, cocking her head to one side, and then the other, in her ruminations.

I must have moved, because she furtively glanced over her shoulder at me, then back down, circled around to the other side of the table, and watched herself move a spoon like a sled across the white cloth with two fingers. “Papa Noir, I’m setting the table, see?” She met my gaze with a trace of a smile, then looked away again, a flicker of worry, pursing her lips in anticipation, and my heart leapt a little.

“Very hospitable of you. Are you expecting anyone to join you for dinner?”

“You’re invited, of course, sit here,” she pulled out the chair at the head of the table, the back of it taller than herself by about two feet, struggling when it caught on a fold of thick carpet, but not deterred. “There!” Of the chairs, only two had elaborately carved scrolling armrests: this one that she had chosen for me, and the one at the opposite end. 

I approached with respect, as if in the presence of royalty. “Thank you, dear.” I gestured to the chair, as she watched me expectantly. “Did you know that that seat is called ‘the head of the table’? Usually, the host, or hostess, sits there.” Her eyes widened slightly, absorbing this new information. “As you’re the hostess, you would take that place.”

“How did you know that!” she said, using the chair’s arms to give her the leverage to pull herself up into it and sit, then, finding she couldn’t reach the table top, scrambled her legs up with charming little animal squeaks. When she had them folded under herself, she appeared to be half-consumed by a fluffy black velvet pastry, which slumped as she leaned on the tabletop on her elbows and looked up at me, chin up.

“It’s etiquette, my mother taught me-” We hadn’t spoken to her of our families, Lestat had not specifically forbade it… I didn’t know if I was worried about his anger at having revealed something that would be detrimental to us - in some way that I foolishly couldn’t fathom - or the lancing pain in my chest of it inviting other questions from her, which could lead her too close to the horror of what we really were. It was unspoken but understood in Lestat’s warning glance at me whenever she skirted near it: she had to be kept back from that ruinous chasm, for as long as we could manage. 

I took the seat to her right, which would be my place, as the highest-ranked man present. The fountain in our courtyard caught my eye, it glittered with raindrop strikes, skittering diamonds in the soft glow from the parlor. “Ah, where were we? I was taught etiquette in order to behave like a gentleman, as we would often invite society people to dinner at our home.”

“Your home here?” She looked around the table, mouthing silently as she pointed at the ten places, counting. “Where is your mother?” She asked seriously, as she rocked back and forth, studying my reaction and clearly acquiring a taste for this topic. Inwardly, I winced. 

“I... this wasn’t always my home. Papa Jaune and I moved here,” the words came out on a held breath, “from outside the city.” This was the truth, a small relief, and I settled my hands in my lap as I went on. “My mother has… gone to Heaven.”

This would have to do for now, given how dutifully my mother had attended church, how regularly she called upon Jesus himself for divine assistance in weathering the storm of her every disappointment. Of which there were always many assaulting her, daily. More than be eternally grateful for the invitation, she would likely be complaining about her seat placement at his table in heaven.

Claudia nodded, considering her distorted reflection in a spoon. “Mine did, too.” She traded the spoon for two knives, crossing them like fencing blades, her lips pressed together in a clean line. Quietly, she asked: “Do you know how these go?” 

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, taking three forks from the center pile, a knife, and two spoons. 

_“Three_ forks! What do you need so many for?” She leaned forward on her elbows, like a duck dipping down for water, and watched me place the pieces in between us, to the left of where my plate would be, the largest fork in the center, and the more delicate closest to me. 

“Well, they each serve a specific purpose, you’re meant to go through them according to the part of the meal.” She made a little cup of her hands and plopped her chin down into her palms, fascinated. _“Parts_ of the meal!” she said breathlessly, with a mocking lilt as Lestat might have done, as if it was some kind of capital joke, that there could be more than one plate of food at a given meal! 

She scowled comically up at me, in contrast with the flicker of the Claudia I had first found, a filthy cherub with matted hair, clinging to the wrist of a dead woman in their one-room shack, marinating in a stench of death too heavy for anyone to ignore. Our Claudia was an exquisite doll, the black dress absorbed the light around it like a void, white lace decorating her neck, the twinned white trim at the puffed sleeves like spring’s newborn petals. 

Less than a year ago, I’d approached this mortal child from behind, having given into the desperately clawing animal that craved easy prey, and swallowed down with painful gulps any last restrictions of empathy for her. In the act of draining her, I chanted my justification, she was abandoned, she had no present and no future, a wounded rabbit that needed the relief of death as much as I needed to consume her. Her dirty skin had been only a shade lighter than her dress, a beige that spoke of sun-baked street detritus, so threadbare that around her shoulders was a couch throw of the same color, its identity revealed by the absurd tassels, probably salvaged from someone’s refuse. I reached out to the Claudia beside me who had been spared the memory I still held like a lump in my chest. My fingers indulged in the shining golden hair at the side of her dear little head, reassuring in its clean and silky texture, and she preened under my touch.

“Yes, they’re called ‘courses,’ in fact. A chef is taking you on a journey of sorts, like your storybooks, with a beginning, middle, and end.” She nodded at the comparison, and let me continue uninterrupted. I held up the small fork to the far left. “This is a salad fork. You start with the one furthest away. Then you leave it on your plate, like so, when you’re finished with that plate, so that the waiter will know to take it away, see? Tines down.” She nodded. I stood and got a dinner plate from the shelf, and a soup bowl. “The next one is the dinner fork, for your main course.” The porcelain dishes made a pleasing clatter together as I set them down that struck me in a nostalgic way. Lestat had been right to purchase a set with wide gold trim, which flickered in a lively way in the candlelight. It had been years since I had had any need to handle dishes, much less set them on a table.

“And that last one? The littlest? Is that the ‘Claudia’ fork?” Her eyes sparkled playfully.

“We can certainly call it that, dove, if you like. It is, in fact, for the sweet part of the meal…” 

“Oooh, dessert!” 

_“Oui!_ You’re catching on very well.” 

We continued with the customary two spoons to the right, along with the dinner knife there, too, making sure the blade faced inward towards the plate. Then the three glasses, one for water, the others for red and white wine, respectively. Claudia eagerly set her own place, identically to mine. As we began the bread and butter plates, which I had nearly forgotten in my zeal with the napkin folding lesson, Lestat materialized in the doorframe as if he had been there for an hour. 

His face was sharply beautiful and rosy from a fresh kill that stole my breath, his stormcloud eyes falling on us with a measure of serene ease, as if the blue sky was just about to appear. His mouth curved into a dreamy smirk, lips matching the blush on his cheekbones. He had shed his coat already, and his vest, teal with precise gold leaf rows, gave off a shine as he swayed in his leaned position in the doorframe, his body a conflict of sinuous and taut. Golden wavy hair rolled down his shoulders like bougainvillea, broken free of his tie, it was voluminous, and decorated with crystal water droplets. Tasting blood, I audibly choked it down; the tip of my tongue had caught harshly on a fang. He flicked his eyes knowingly at me, a little flare of heat in them, which he snuffed out when he turned his attention fully to Claudia, chastising her.

“Having dinner without me, I see?” He sniffed, with the pretense of offense. 

“Oh, of course not, Papa Jaune! Please, please, come sit with us.” Claudia said, rising from the kneeling position on her seat, her skirt jellyfishing alive.

“I never got an _invitation.”_ He turned, leaning on his other shoulder on the doorframe, the white fabric tightly defining the muscle as he turned away, as if he meant to walk right back down the hallway and back into the embrace of the darkness, the rain. “I check the box every night, and no letters! Ever!” Lestat whined. 

Claudia leapt down and fetched up his right hand in both of hers, and pulled gently, and then with increasing strength, unperturbed by his being completely immovable but for that arm, giggling as he went on comically, being _so unloved!,_ so _left out!,_ and other self-pitying babble. As they played at this farce, I stole a moment to retreive a good stiff pillow from the parlor, so that she might sit more at the table level; my mother surely would have chastised her for leaning on her elbows. When I returned, she had put her full weight into her efforts, balancing on the little heels of her leather shoes, and he finally acquiesced, a felled tree, legs just catching himself as she’d nearly pulled him into a fall! And let her lead him to the table. 

Once she had him seated to her left, and she on her pillow at the head of the table, they looked at me for direction as to how to continue our lesson.

“Ah, so we were just getting started. Traditionally,” I said, and Lestat turned to Claudia to mouth the word back at her with some theatrical mockery. My hand was already bringing down a small serving dish from a shelf, ignoring this slight. “One begins with an aperitif, which is a little nibble with a drink.” I set it down, and Lestat reached for my hand, and made as if to bite my finger.

“You said we got a nibble!” said Lestat, biting at air as I snatched my hand back. 

“The nibble is the _aperitif,_ if you don’t mind! There is no nibbling of people within the span of good etiquette, Papa Jaune.” 

“Oh, there isn’t? Might not be all that interested in etiquette, then-” he murmured, drawing a giggle out of Claudia.

“Be that as it may,” I took my seat and mimed taking a laden cracker from the tray. “It’s small bits of food, like crackers with cheese, or perhaps olives. Try some.” 

They both reached out and plucked up a piece of invisible food, Claudia taking the tiniest bites, licking her lips, and finally nodding, “Oh yes, very nice. Next!” 

We went on to the appetizer, a cream of mushroom soup, that they both sipped at delicately with their spoons, Lestat reaching out to dab at Claudia’s chin as she’d apparently spilled some, so she of course had to reciprocate for him. Her praise was not what a chef would find very validating: “It’s very mushroomy! Just _like_ a mushroom, in fact. Maybe, next time, you could add a few more _mushrooms,_ though. Some mushroom _juice_ would really help...” A tenet of Lestat’s comedy, as he had shown by example, was that the mere repetition of a word could render it devoid of meaning, and therefore absurdly comical, and she inventively went on with her absurd monologue of that word until we were both laughing.

“If you’ve had enough of the soup, _mademoiselle,_ we can try the next course,” she wiped at the tears in her eyes, she had even made herself cry laughing, and licked the ruby droplets off her fingers, as if that were an absolutely normal thing to do. The heel of her hand pushed away her soup bowl as if it was singularly responsible for the ache in her cheeks. I took it away and with a little rearrangement, set down another tray, the long table providing ample room; a landscape of empty silver and porcelain dishes that nonetheless appeared teeming with the most delicious food, each one I announced had been a favorite of mine. 

“Next is fish…” 

Claudia groaned. “Oh I _hate_ fish! Too many bones.” She drawled.“Agreed! Fish is right out.” Lestat commanded, rising, striding around the table to return that serving dish to its dust circle on the shelf. 

“Fair enough, how about the next course, meat, with vegetables on the side?” 

Lestat held back his thoughts on the matter, waiting for Claudia’s answer. “Depends what _kind_ of meat.” She folded her arms.

“How about a priest?” Lestat said with some flair, straightening up like the head server in a fine hotel. “They are very fresh this time of year, so close to the holiday season.”

“Yes, that!” Claudia said, and then, correcting herself into a more proper position, collapsing her hands together primly. “I mean, yes, please, that would be rather lovely, _garçon.”_

I shook my head but took my seat, allowing Lestat to serve us not only the platter, but also the servings on our plates, before he joined us. 

“Lady and gentleman,” he addressed us with solemn tone. “You’ll find that Brother Francis has been cooked to perfection, medium-rare, as per your usual preference. He pairs very well with a side of heirloom tomatoes and sautéed asparagus in a red wine vinaigrette.”

“Excellent choice, red’s my favorite color, merci _garçon!”_ Claudia said, her chin up, right down her button nose at him, chest puffed out like it was laden with strands of pearls.

As we made little stabbing and cutting motions with forks and knives, delicately preventing any shrieks against the plates - which Claudia had done unintentionally once, the knife heavy in her hand, and immediately forbade any of us from doing so again - I bumped my toe against what I thought to be a table leg, and moved. Something softer made contact on the same tip of my shoe, something that sought my foot out. I looked up, and Lestat shot me a mischievous flash of a smile and a wink, the unrepentant flirt, of course it wasn’t the table leg at all.

Claudia continued on, talking about how delicious the meat was, and how well the asparagus had been made, we really ought to give our chef a Christmas bonus, in which I was rapidly losing focus, as another conversation began under the table. Lestat’s toes, a paw in their silk stocking, climbed up, prodded inquisitively at my ankle, the heat igniting at the dip in my clavicle, rising up my neck, my jawline. 

“Papa Noir? Did you bite a spicy part?” Claudia inquired, breaking character. 

“He _did_ eat a spicy part,” Lestat said, lowering his voice to a rumble, his toes seeking to pull off my shoe. “Papa Noir loves it spicy. The hotter the better.” 

“I do not! How dare you assume-” my tone was meant to be stern but I couldn’t school my expression to match, my lip curled affectionately, emboldening him. 

“I know you, I’ve seen you consume heat.” said Lestat, not entertaining my protest in the least, striving at loosening my shoelaces, my foot paralyzed, allowing it, as he pretended to cut another piece of his meat. “Relish it, in fact. As much as I do, most likely.”

I murmured some half-formed objection briefly, before succumbing to the very pleasurable stroking that I couldn’t see, but very much could feel, and quietly pushed off one of my shoes.

“I like spicy, too!” 

“No, you don’t.” We both said gently, in unison, synchronized as we looked at our daughter. There was a beat where the building heat had cooled right off, I rose to get a fresh platter. “Ah, it’s time for the salad!” 

They both groaned. 

“We already _had_ vegetables!” Lestat said, as if he were in fact not much older than Claudia’s mortal age. I sighed, it felt at times like there were in fact two children in the flat, one of them was simply unnaturally tall.

“This is a special salad, it’s made entirely of…” I scoured for inspiration, glancing around the room, the framed illustrations on the walls offering no ideas, peering at the drenched garden outside. “Flowers. Roses, tulips, and lilacs.” Claudia lit up, the very concept of eating something meant to be appreciated from afar was more thrilling to her than eating a cooked _priest_. “The parsley leaves are a garnish, however, not for eating.” I tsked, as I set down the ‘salad’ plates. 

“Oh I do hope you’ve removed the thorns, that would make for a dreadfully unpleasant mouthfeel, Papa Noir.” said Lestat, deft tongue flicking at a fang, Claudia nodded gravely seriously, as she dug in with her proper salad fork.

“I thought you liked spice, _mon cher,”_ I said, taking my seat and seeking his foot with mine in one fluid motion, grazing a line from the inner arch to the ankle. He sucked in a breath, angling himself closer so that I would have more access. “Thorns can be devilish croutons, _non?”_

“They’re certainly not to be treated as croutons under any circumstances,” he said, authority soaking every word. “But yes, I’ve said explicitly that I like it, depends entirely on the type of spice, _‘Noir.”_ He tilted his head appraisingly, plotting, withdrawing his sinful toes from my reach. Claudia blissfully chomped away at forkfuls of flowers, commenting on the taste of each: citrus, sweet, even salty. According to her discerning palate, roses tasted of cocoa. 

“You moved us onto the salad rather too soon,” said Lestat. “I wasn’t finished with the previous plate,” he dragged that plate back in front of him. His fork made contact with a cut piece, and he raised it towards me, “You really ought to try my sausage, dearest.”

“There wasn’t any sausage with-” 

“There was on mine, your waiter must have failed to serve yours,” pressed Lestat. “Try my sausage, you’ll love it.” 

The fork rose to our eye level, a baited hook, glinting in the candle light, meant for me to swim towards. Right in the middle of the table. Well, a hook, at any rate. I regarded him with unadulterated skepticism.

“Try it! Try it!” Claudia cheerfully commanded. There was no refusing her eagerness, on such a high level that it made another hairline fracture in my heart.

I drew my feet in, and with my legs uncrossed, I could lean forward to reach the fork, Lestat teasingly pulled it away when I reached with my hand. “No,” he said sternly, “Let me serve you, dearest.” Ah, he meant for me to receive it as communion directly on my tongue. I rolled my eyes but accommodated, further, now, meeting him halfway, and then a fraction of an inch closer to him.

In a blink he had pulled it out of my reach, surged up, and snagged my mouth with his, chastely at first, and then diabolically slipping his tongue in, sliding against mine. I met his pressure, registering the thud of the fork striking the table, and then felt his hand grasping the back of my head, fingers lacing into my hair, holding steady. A bruising, searing kiss-

“eeEWWW!” Claudia shielded her eyes. “Dis _gusting!_ Stop, stop it!” she cried, embarrassed.

We parted but stayed in place, his fingertips trailing down the back of my neck. Lestat pouted at her, and I gave him one tiny peck to the corner of his mouth nearest me as a small bit of closure, for the time being. He slumped back in his chair, watching me collect myself, pleased that he’d ruffled my composure, partially satiated by that fact alone.

“What’s next?” Claudia bounced in her seat, bringing us back on track. 

Cheese platters were the next item, she and Lestat made a show of the fact that, as he informed her, high quality cheeses often smell powerfully bad. Neither of us could explain the process of actually _making_ cheese, but she was dismissive when we said it could be made from goat or sheep’s milk, too, even as we emphatically said so. Who could blame her for distrusting us, after the flower salad, the priest entrée?

Finally, we came to the desserts, and this was somewhat bittersweet, as Claudia had probably not known anything beyond the level of hot cocoa, or simple chocolates, in life. Perhaps biscuits or shortbread, some fruits. I presented her with some half dozen desserts, and Lestat helped to describe their appearance, his hands taking a circular shape to describe the structure of a raspberry tarte, flowing his fingers over what would be the bumpy berry-packed surface, describing the smooth and thick nature of custard.

“Have you had a lot of custard, Papa Jaune?” Claudia asked softly, twirling her spoon into one of the desserts, and not really knowing what the give of the material would be, if there had been a slice of pecan pie there, it would have been shoved right off her plate. 

“I’m afraid not, dove. We couldn’t afford anything too fancy in my little town.” He choked on that, but what had been said, had been said. And instead of flashing a warning at me, which he would have done if I had been the one to let something slip out, his eyes had a touch of fear. He had revealed something, a scrap, to both of us. 

“What he meant to say,” I ventured, taking her attention from him, “is that we weren’t always able to buy whatever we liked, as we can now.” She nodded sympathetically, and Lestat chewed at his lower lip, touching his foot to mine again, gently now, not to entice, but to thank.

“I don’t think my mother ever made pie,” she had an elbow on the table, and rested her head on her hand, wobbly. “Or petit-fours. I don’t… remember…” she said haltingly, her brow creased. Her mother’s first name, and her own last name, had been lost as the time had gone on, as she lost it, we had fewer of these agonizing moments. Whether that was in Claudia’s best interest was a question we both refused to speak aloud, instead selfishly preferring the ease of having her shed it like an outgrown skin.

We somehow made it through, completed the desserts round, Claudia asking us more than inventing, what this or that tasted like. The malty sweetness of caramel drizzle, the texture of chocolate soufflé.

By the time we were through with the entire game of it, the grandfather clock chimed well into the early morning hours, Claudia’s mouth yawning, displaying her charming kittenish fangs. She rubbed at her eyes, could hardly keep them open, Lestat leant down and gathered her up into his arms, cooing at her as he did so.

He took her upstairs, the usual creak on the third step, and he laid her down gently in my coffin, fetching her currently favorite doll, and she mustered the energy to reach out for her, wriggling her fingers. “Babbette! Babbette!” drawing the doll in tightly, as I drew up the light blanket we kept in there, and pulled her shoes off. Then, she reached a hand out for me to join her, as I always did. I let her grasp my pointer finger. 

“Darling, I have a few things to do before I can sleep, are you alright with Babbette for now?” her eyelids were fully closed now, her lashes looked like artfully drawn ink against her glowing skin, and she nodded, the doll’s head wedged firmly into her cheek. She let go, settling into sleep, as we closed the lid over her.

“A few things to do, hmmm,” Lestat hummed, the hand that he had on my lower back sliding onto my hip. “Such as? For example?” 

I glanced at the window, still raining. Perhaps even harder now than earlier. There was no going out tonight, but I felt hollow. Empty. “You know what I need to do,” I said, loving him, loving that he had spent those hours performing for Claudia’s amusement, his pale blue eyes shone glassy in the dim light. My hand gentle on his face, as he leaned into the touch.

“Don’t go out in that nasty weather, Louis,” he said, a little brokenly. This was as close to begging as I had heard from him in a very long time and I struggled for a breath, my need clawing at the inside of my chest. “Stay,” he said, planting a reverent kiss on my lips. “Stay.” he repeated.

His hands could read the discord in the tension of my body, the trail of little kisses along his jawline an apology. “I must, you’ve kept me here in thrall all night,” I murmured to the tender place where his jaw met his ear. I tightened my hold on his waist, despite the need to let go, go out and fill my veins, whistling inside like a bundle of empty reeds.

“Dine here, then,” he well and truly begged now, taking a step back, but only moving when he felt me follow him. “You hardly touched my sausage tonight, you must be starving for it,” he grinned, dipping his chin down coquettishly. I scoffed. 

“Lestat!” 

We bickered playfully as he led me into his room, no need to shut the door, and only stopped when his long legs hit the bed. 

“I'm afraid we’re all out of that specialty sausage from earlier this evening,  _ monsieur _ ,” he said in a low voice, eyeing my lips, pushing himself up to the headboard on a luxurious a pile of pillows, his fingertips on my arm, coaxing me to join him.

“Well, good, as it wasn’t very satisfying, in point of fact, it was served in a dreadfully small portion-”

“ _ Small! _ Ingrate! How rude, what a thing to say!” He laughed, and I chose not to address it, choosing instead to advance on his sprawled form. “Tell me, then, what is available, at such a late hour?” Letting the desire take deeper breaths inside my chest, letting it instruct my motion into the fluid pull that had me slotted into his warm embrace.

We kissed insistently, as if debating sides of an argument, half reclined, his hands seeking access, opening my shirt, and unwrapping a shoulder. “Me,” he broke character. “Please, Louis,” he whimpered. 

“Yes, Lestat, yes,” I kissed him, reassuring, taking hold of his chin so that he could only receive my hungry mouth, consuming him, as I returned the favor and opened his shirt, pulling the collar delicately aside, along with his silk scarf. There would be reprimands for weeks if either were torn or stained.

I had my fingers carding through his glorious mane, baring more skin to my wandering kisses, sucking at the column of his neck, so that he couldn’t help but writhe beneath my body, hips pinning him down. I dragged my teeth against him, gnawing with increasing pressure until he moaned, his fingers in my hair, clutching me to stillness. 

Without any further preamble, I let my fangs slide home - thrilling at his gasp -, through the shell of his skin, with the precision of surgical blades, and pushed just slightly so the blood would begin to flow freely, knowing, too, that he exquisitely felt where he was pierced and held open, the skin reacting from the injury and straining to knit closed again. 

“Divine, divine… ah…” he was murmuring, praise combed in my hair as he stroked through it, untangling the waves, his other hand pulling me more atop him, pulling our legs into a tangle. “Yes, Louis, h-how does it taste?” he gave a weak laugh. “Good enough for you?”

He knew damn well I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, without risking an actual bloody mess. “Mhmmm.” I hummed back at him. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” He chastised. “It’s _poor etiquette.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my 3 beta-readers, who tirelessly helped me break through my writer's block with their helpful soundboarding and grammatical assistance!
> 
> ♥AO3@hw_campbell_jnr (tumblr@gulfportofficial);  
> ♥AO3@HidetheSilverware (alexa_dean) (tumblr@hidethesilverwareblog); and  
> ♥AO3@Rebness (tumblr@wicked-felina).


End file.
